No Laughing Matter
by Dizzo
Summary: Dean has an idea for a motel stay with a difference for Hallowe'en. Sam's less than impressed. Rated T for the odd naughty word.


NO LAUGHING MATTER

Dean has an idea for a motel stay with a difference for Hallowe'en. Sam's less than impressed.

Written in response to a picture prompt in the Spn-BigPretzel Hallowe'en Micro Bang Challenge over on Livejournal.

Disclaimer: I don't own these beautiful guys, I just love them.

xxxxx

Sam stared.

He blinked; then stared again, in the pathetic hope that the nightmarish vision in front of him might just be some kind of fatigue-fuelled mirage, but, so far … no such luck.

Their drive across interminable miles of desert road to the miniscule ass-end-of-nowhere town of Tonopah had been boring, tiring and hot, despite the late October chill pervading the air, and the brothers' bickering throughout the journey had worn Sam down to a degree that all he wanted to do was shower the desert dust away and fall into bed in the 'really cool motel' that Dean had discovered on one of his, 'of course I'm researching; porn is very educational so stop your nagging, bitch,' internet trawls. Apparently, he'd liked the look of this motel so much he'd actually booked ahead.

After that awful drive, punching Dean's lights out had been working its way up Sam's list of priorities too, but now, having gotten his first look at said motel, punching the impishly smug grin off of Dean's face had suddenly become number one in capital letters with red underscore on Sam's to do list.

"D'y like it?" Dean grinned, nudging Sam in the arm; green eyes sparkling with evil glee.

Sam's mouth moved silently for a moment as he stared up at the giant sign welcoming them to 'The Clown Motel'.

Adorned with a creepy cartoon of some pointy-hatted freak in a green and white harlequin ensemble juggling – something Sam guessed were supposed to be coloured balls, but he just knew they were actually shrunken human heads - the sign looked as if its entire purpose in existing was just to make his life a little bit more crappy.

Finally, after his brain regained a few basic motor functions, he turned slowly to Dean. That grin, the pearly white grin on his dickwad brother's face was expertly calculated to be as annoying as possible.

"I hate you," snarled Sam.

"Aw, c'mon Sammy, it's Hallowe'en, we gotta stay somewhere cool for Hallowe'en …"

"I hate you, and I'll hate your children," he growled. "I'll hate their children too, and theirs…"

"Hey, it looks like fun," Dean interrupted, totally unmoved by Sam's apparent disaapproval; "and anyhow, I thought it'd be good for my baby bro' to face his fears with his big brother by his side."

"… then I'll hate their pets, and their neighbours. And their neighbours' pets too."

Dean's face was alight with joyful mischief. "C'mon, let's go check in."

Sam's eyes narrowed as Dean's grin widened.

"You're loving this, aren't you?"

Dean shrugged; "can't deny there's an element of that." He didn't even have the decency to look apologetic.

xxxxx

If Sam's hope was that the inside of this place might be better than the outside, he was utterly, tragically, horrifically wrong.

As he walked into the room, he dumped his duffle heavily into the purple upholstery of a clown-shaped chair, making a concerted effort to look anywhere except at the red and yellow striped wallpaper with the clown-infested frieze running all the way around it. A few inches above the frieze, a narrow wooden shelf also ran a full circumference of the room. It was piled high with clown dolls, toys and action figures. Every fibre of Sam's being wanted to take a shotgun to each and every one of them.

His lip curled in contempt as he spied the vile clown-patterned duvet covers on both beds and he felt his gorge rise and his bladder shrink simultaneously, a not-inconsiderable anatomical feat.

Pointedly ignoring his obnoxious bastard of a jerk-faced asshole brother who was calmly unpacking his duffel, and enthusiastically pointing out some apparently appealing clown characters within the frieze, Sam headed toward the bathroom.

If the toilet was in the shape of a clown, a clown hat or a clown car, or anything else even remotely circussy, Sam was going to murder Dean in his sleep.

No jury in the land would convict.

Thankfully, the bathroom was largely composed of white porcelain, and mercifully free of disgusting axe-murderer pervo clown images; as long as you ignored the toothbrush tumbler, the soap dish, the toilet brush holder, the shower curtain and a particularly disturbing face-cloth which Sam took great delight in flushing down the toilet.

He nearly choked on his toothbrush as he glanced in the mirror to be confronted with a clown-shaped bath mat hanging on the back of the door behind him.

No, slow torture was the way to go now; simple murder was too good for Dean.

xxxxx

If Sam thought bedtime, bringing darkness and shuteye might improve the situation, he was also wrong.

Why? He thought as he lay awake, staring through the murk; why would anyone make clown dolls that glowed in the goddamn stinking dark?

He lay in bed cringing under the gaze of the leering green visages that stared back at him from various points around the room, the promise of torment and imminent disembowelment written all over their evil, sick, scummy little faces.

But the worst thing of all was that, beside him, Dean was curled up under his clown duvet, as cosy as a dozing dormouse. His soft snores, borne of the soundest of sleeps, taunted Sam even further.

xxxxx

It was two a.m. when Sam finally cracked.

He leapt out of bed, dragging Dean's duvet cover off

"We're going," he snapped.

"Gnuh?"

"I can't stay in this freaky shithole a minute longer."

"Bu'Sam…'mtired," Dean mumbled groggily; "wan' sleep … you kep' me 'wake wi' all y'whinin' an' tossin' an' turnin'."

Taking advantage of Dean's sleep-muzzed condition, Sam herded him out of the room, rapidly manhandling him into the Impala's passenger seat. Without another word, he climbed into the driver's seat beside his drowsing brother and gunned the engine, leaving the room, the motel and all its freakshow contents without a backwards glance.

xxxxx

The low mid-morning sun was gleaming through the Impala's windshield when Dean finally opened his eyes.

Stretching the kinks out of his neck, he absently scratched his head and yawned lavishly.

"Mornin'," he grunted, blinking the haze of sleep out of his eyes. It was then he noted that the Impala was parked up; "where are we?"

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," Sam grinned; "guess what? Bobby found us a job."

"Oh," Dean knuckled his eyes sleepily; "okay."

Sam shrugged casually; "Job's a yeti, offing tourists. Bobby's got a friend who can help us.

Dean's brow furrowed as he looked first at Sam, then glanced across to a sign a little way in front of the Impala.

'Granite Hills Airport'.

"But we're at an airport?"

Sam's face stretched into a wicked grin; "yeah Dean, the job's in Baffin Island. Bobby's friend's a pilot."

Belying his waking sluggishness, Dean flung the Impala's door open, tumbling out onto the asphalt of the parking lot with unseemly haste. Despite his best efforts, however, his escape was rudely halted by Sam's long arm reaching out and grasping the rapidly retreating seat of Dean's pants, slowly hauling him back into the car.

"Say Dean," Sam smiled; "you wouldn't deny me the chance of helping my big brother to conquer his fear, would you?"

xxxxx

end

_A/N The Clown Motel, Tonopah, actually exists. Google it, go on, I dare you!_


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